Recovery of the Prisoner
by Archangels-Werewolf
Summary: Continuing on from 'Feral Rage.' A certain kidnapped mouse is sighted after being missing for years, and it turns out the Biker Mice aren't the only ones who know her. Rated T, may go up to M at one stage or another. Cheers. Please R&R!
1. First Contact

Author's Note:

Greetings to you all. Hope your all having a good day and thank you in advance for reading.

Before we get into it, I would like to list some names. Usernames, not real names.

IntrepidWarriors. Mad-Eyed Owl. CuriousFan. Morning. FairDrea. Inuficcrzy.

A common theme with these people is that they have all written some great stories for Biker Mice from Mars. And this is only a small amount – there are many others who have put some good reads in. I just wanted to mention some of those people, people who may live around the corner from you, who have got talent with their pen or keyboard. People who have cheered me up when I felt down, or have inspired me to write things on FanFiction through their work. So I guess what I'm trying to say is, thank you guys.

Now, about this story. It's a sequel to 'Feral Rage,' which I wrote a couple of months ago. Some questions were left unanswered, and I wanted to explore some of the characters a bit deeper than what I did earlier (kudos to CuriousFan for this, hehe). Also, I'll be uploading it chapter by chapter, so at times I may need to tweak small parts of the story for others to fit. Hopefully not though.

Anyway, enough of my sentiment. I hope you enjoy it. Cheers. A_W.

**Recovery Of The Prisoner.**

First Contact.

The dunes of Mars rolled beautifully as the sand hills swept forward, further than the eye could see. Crimson at the the bottom where the sun couldn't reach, but a brilliant blood red at the top, making it look as if the whole planet was burning. A rocky crag stood a bit off to the right, overhanging a shallow cove where it protected the expanding garden at its feet.

The garden.

Bright, bold colors of red, purple, blue and yellow, complemented with different shades of green foliage had begun to venture out further from the small pond that kept the garden watered. The trees that were scattered around the garden were growing taller, swaying lazily in the breeze, with some of them bearing small amounts of fruit.

Even though she gazed out across at the beautiful landscape most days, Carbine was still in awe and wonder of what she saw, especially the small changes in the Garden of Hope that mostly went unnoticed by those on base. Just looking at the scenery was enough to unwind her from a long day of ordering people around to cease any chaos in the ranks and reading reports from those who were sent on various missions to every corner of Mars, mostly to investigate new Plutarkian activity or existing damage to the planet.

"Carbine," Stoker's gravelly voice sounded from the door of the balcony.

She smiled, and looked over her shoulder to see the founder of the Freedom Fighters aiming a digital camera straight at her. The shutter clicked, and he looked up again, grinning.

"Stoker! You know I hate my photo being taken," she said sternly, walking towards him.

"Come on, Carbine. It was a great shot. Even Vinnie would say..."

"I don't care what Vinnie would say – it would either be about himself or my arse. Now, give me the damn camera."

Stoker held the black camera over his head , swapping it from hand to hand as Carbine jumped to try and grab it. After ten seconds, she gave up. Stoker brought the picture up on the display and whistled.

"That's not half bad, Carbine," he said.

"Give me a look," she cut in.

Holding it securely with both hands in case she tried to make a quick grab for it, Stoker showed her the display. The dunes and garden were caught beautifully in the background, the color immaculate. In the foreground, Carbine stood in her green vest and mustard pants, looking over her shoulder, with her hand on the rail. The smile on her face was _au naturale_ – not a forced smile if she was aware her photo was being taken. The breeze had caught some of her long black hair, making look as if it floated all by itself.

"Not bad, eh?" Stoker asked.

Carbine shrugged. "It's alright," she grunted, not fully prepared to admit that it really was quite good. Not to Stoker anyway.

"How's your day?" he asked.

"What do you want, Stoker?" Carbine asked with a sarcastic smile.

"Just wanted to talk."

"About what?"

"Anything. We haven't had a chance to catch up for a long time," Stoker said.

"That's because we are both busy people. Which I still am, I might add. So unless there's something urgent, I need to get back to work," Carbine said, trying to get rid of him.

"We both know that you're not gonna do any more work tonight," Stoker chuckled. "You're going to stick around in your office, and only complain to yourself that Throttle's taking too long on Earth, and that you want him back here. Because if you complain to anyone else, you feel like you're showing weakness. And as a General, you can't show weakness in front of your troops."

"_Bastard. Hit the nail right on the head,"_ Carbine thought to herself, grimacing slightly.

"It's ok to show feelings," Stoker said, noticing the slight twitch of her lips. He remembered when he crash-landed on Earth with Rimfire and almost broke down in tears when he discovered he had lost his edge in battle. Back then, he too thought that you couldn't show emotion to anyone, and he had expressed exactly how he felt to a woman he didn't really know.

"It's ok, you're young. You will know what I'm talking about one day."

Carbine offered a soft smile. "Thanks, Stoker. If I ever need to talk, I'll let you know."

The mildly aged Freedom Fighter nodded his head and made to exit the office, but he stopped at the door. He turned the digital camera on again and looked at the display.

"Uh, Carbine," he said. "I can't quite tell from this picture, but are you even wearing panties today?"

The Army general knew it was only a matter of time before the usual crude, often sexual remark arose in conversation. "That's for me to know, and Throttle to find out when he gets back," she replied, winking. "Goodnight, Stoker."

"Goodnight, Carbine."

Standing on the balcony, she took into account what the old timer had said. Sure, he was rougher than guts, had a bigger ego than a Plutarkian's rear-end and the amount of testosterone his body produced would be considered as 'a bit more than healthy.' That didn't mean he didn't care. It was quite the opposite, even though his form of affection was rather unorthodox. And he could pick up things that people would think were the world's best kept secret as if it was as plain as day. In some cases, experience really did come with time.

She then turned he thoughts towards Throttle. The mouse with the body of a Greek god, the intelligence of a certified genius, and the smooth voice of the male lead in a steamy romance novel. He had promised her that he would return to Mars to live again, and he always followed through on promises. It was just the fact it was taking _so_ long. All he had to do was bag that stinking Limburger, his two offsiders and that weird mutant thing with a tentacle. He could do that without Vinnie and Modo's help, and yet the three of them were taking their very sweet time. Even if she knew _why_ it took so long, it would make her feel a lot better.

After having three minutes of peace in her office, a lieutenant knocked on the door and entered.

"What is it?" Carbine sighed, who was still on the balcony, watching over the desert.

"Ma'am, you should have a look at this," he said.

Carbine took a deep breath, and sighed, really hoping it was just a simple order which she could issue verbally. After wrenching her eyes from the beautiful sight, she took a folder from the lieutenant opened it. After taking a few moments to read the first page, she looked at the soldier.

"When did this come in?" she asked.

"Seventeen minutes ago."

"And she was sighted...when?"

"Mid-afternoon today," the lieutenant kept his answers concise.

Carbine flicked through a couple more pages, taking into account the location, main travel routes and witnesses who had reported the sighting.

"Thank you, lieutenant. Dismissed."

The trooper saluted, and left the office promptly. Carbine went to her desk and picked up the phone, dialing a number. Stoker.

"Hey! You've called 'The Love Palace.' Leave your name, number and vital statistics and I'll get right back to you. _Beep!_" the voice mail said.

"Carbine. 24, 20, 26. Stoker after you get this message, get back to me. We just got a confirmed sighting on Harley."

*

The die clunked on the board as Modo took his turn. It eventually stopped rolling around, four dots on it's uppermost side.

"Ok...one, two, three, four," he counted out loud.

The Biker Mice had gotten out the old game of 'Snakes and Ladders,' and had been playing for around half an hour now. There wasn't much going on lately, even though Limburger had returned from Plutark about a week ago. To get the board games out was like going into damage control. Right now, Modo was on number 74, Throttle was on number 85 and it was Vinnie's turn, leading on 89.

"Ok, let's see how much magic Vinnie has up his sleeve," he taunted as he cast the die.

"You're not wearing a shirt, so you can't have anything up your sleeve," Modo pointed out.

"Yeah, you're right. I don't need any sleeves to be able to conjure up a few tricks...Ha ha!" Vinnie yelped with glee; he rolled a six. "As I was saying before. One, two, three, four...five...six..."

Vinnie's counter landed on a snakes head, which lead all the way down to square 38.

"Huh?" he uttered, not able to comprehend he was now last, by a _very _long way.

"Well, guess that tells us how good you are at magic," Throttle sniggered.

"It's not fair! I'm having another roll," said Vinnie, grabbing the die.

"Hey, that's cheating you know?" Modo said.

"Watch me!"

"Oh yeah? Then watch me do this," the massive grey mouse said as he planted his fist straight into Vinnie's cheekbone, knocking him off his chair.

Not one to back down from a challenge, the white mouse launched himself at his comrade-in-arms and started to throw a flurry of punches. Throttle couldn't resist and started to join in the three-being brawl, creating a rolling ball of dust, fur and tails.

Suddenly, the heavy metal music was interrupted on the radio by Sweet Georgie Brown, the baddest hard-rocking DJ in Chicago.

"Hey, dudes! This is Sweet Georgie Brow-own, shakin' rattlin' and rollin' the roads of Chi-town," he said in his usual exaggeratedly smooth DJ voice. "We got a caller for the Metallicrank competition."

"Yeah, so what?" Vinnie scoffed, before trying to get Modo in a headlock. He tried to call but again, the lines were busy.

"What's your name, little lady?"

"Charley," a very familiar females voice came over the speaker, one that instantly stopped the boy's horseplay.

"Well Charley, can you tell all the rockin' listeners out there who the lead singer of the metal-mashing band Metallicrank is?"

Vinnie beamed as Charley gave the right answer, which in turn had won her a free copy of the latest album of the band in question.

"_That's my girl," _he thought to himself. They had been dating for around a month, and while most things hadn't changed, there were some subtle differences in Vinnie's behaviour. In their down time, he would go to the Last Chance Garage and hang out, or go to a movie, or a picnic. He was still just as flirtatious with her, but he knew that it wasn't just casual jokes between friends; they were more than friends. They were partners. An item. Boyfriend and girlfriend.

Contrary to popular belief and rumours, Vinnie's history with women was quite small. It was mainly due to the fact that Harley had been taken straight after they had started their relationship on Mars. He had liked her for months, watching her fix bikes and share meals at the Freedom Fighter base. It was when he did a backflip off a table and colliding with the wall and her attending to his minor injuries that he was desperate to have her as his own. And finally when he did, she was gone. Disappeared. Vanished.

He was an absolute mess immediately after, and it had taken him months to even speak her name without becoming withdrawn and moody. He would go out for long rides on his bike, other times he would go out to some of the popular watering holes and pick fights, sometimes against five or six other guys. But the main thing that really distracted him were the insane stunts, intense races and incredible destruction he could cause with his bike, creating such a rush of adrenaline and other catecholamines through his bloodstream that he could just about forget everything bad in his life for a couple of minutes. Sure, he was an adrenaline junkie by nature, but these behaviours had taken it to a whole new level, and he had come off pretty badly more than a few times as a result.

Now, after a long time, he had felt that he could move on. He had all but given up hope of finding her again. She was most likely dead, or on the other side of the universe. It had been years. And now he was in love with the beautiful mechanic who could put up with his incessant egotistical charm and constant need of adrenaline. Well, maybe not love. He hadn't had much experience with it in relationships and he was still getting used to it. But he was sure he could find his way.

"Well, Miss Charley, we'll go off the airwaves of this fine cit-ay and I'll get your details," Sweet Georgie Brown said.

"Just before I do, can I request a song for my boyfriend?" Charley asked. "He's the baddest mammajammer in the universe and I know he'll be listening to this."

"Mammajammer," the slick-sounding DJ rolled the word off his tongue easily. "That is one sick saying you got there, Charley-girl. Would it be sweet if we could use that word for all the cool cats listening out there?"

"Not sure – you'll have to ask him," giggled Charley. "Can I please request 'My Generation' by Lame Cookie?"

"No probs, and in the words of My Generation," Sweet Georgie Brown said, making excellent emphasis on the pun, "Later dudes!" The speakers exploded with the sounds of screaming electric guitars and someone taking a hammer to various pieces of metal.

For his part, Vinnie put his hands behind his head and smirked at his comrades in arms, rubbing in the fact that he was the luckiest mouse in the universe. The way that Charley had so openly displayed their relationship to the listeners humbled him very deeply, and yet, also gave him the biggest ego inflation in a long time.

"Well I'm a lucky man...With fire in my hands," he started singing softly, a tune that was the complete opposite Charley had just requested for him. But, as with any kind of softer moment with Vinnie, it was short-lived and he was once again throwing his head around to the song.

Watching him for a moment, Throttle and Modo could tell Vinnie was the happiest he had been for a long time. Sure, he made out that not much had changed, just that he spent more time around at the Garage, but they both knew one big thing that was different from before.

He had moved on.

It was, what, about three and a half years since they had first met Charley and even longer since Harley was gone. And now that they were pretty certain the Harley wasn't going to come back on the scene anymore, their white-furred bro had stopped chasing her ghost and come back to the land of the living, so to speak.

"Hey! Hey guys, you there?" the two-way radio crackled to life.

It was Charley.

Vinnie was there before either Modo or Throttle could blink. "I'm right here, doll-face."

"Whatcha up to?" Charley asked in an innocent and yet cheeky voice.

"Just waiting for you to call, sweetheart," Vinnie said, looking at the handpiece seductively, as if it was the beautiful mechanic he was dating.

"Are you guys busy? Do you expect any problems from Cheese-face today?"

"I don't think so, Charley-girl," Throttle's deep voice came over the microphone. "Still, anything's possible."

"Oh, come on Throttle. Lighten up, would ya?" the cheerful Charley replied.

"Yeah, come on bro. It's gonna take a few more days before Limburger gets his tower back in order," Modo offered. "We got some time before we need to get our hands dirty."

"Well, anyway guys, I got a surprise for all of you," her voice was just barely able to contain her excitement. "Can you come over here soon?"

"No problemo babe, anything you say," Vinnie said, not knowing how dangerous those words were.

"Really Vincent? Anything I say?"

"Anything, babe."

"Well, there's a couple of bikes here that need fixing, and there's a stack of dishes on the sink..."

Vinnie groaned, and Charley began laughing on the other end, knowing that she was going to have a lot of fun teasing her very studly mouse of a boyfriend.

"Alright Charley-girl, we'll be on our way soon," Throttle smiled.

"Ok, see you soon guys." The radio clicked off.

"I wonder what color she picked out to wear for me," Vinnie said with a great deal of suggestiveness in his voice as they made their way to their bikes.

"Probably a lavender shirt with black jeans; the usual," Modo grinned as he applied his helmet, reminding his friend that there was no chance of intimacy happening anytime soon.

"Ok bros. Let's rock..." yelled Throttle.

"And ride!"

*

If only the Biker Mice knew what Stoker did, back on Mars.

The room was dark, save for the small lamp illuminating the pages that Stoker read over and over again. After he got the message on his mobile phone from Carbine about Harley, he hadn't been able to relax. He could still remember that day, just after the Tug-Transformer had blasted off from Mars, when she had been abducted by Mace, the bastardly rat who had been working behind their backs the whole time.

Stoker felt it pretty hard – he had liked her for a while, but knew nothing would have happened between them. But he especially felt sorry for Vinnie, after they had just began dating on the battlefield, only to have her literally stolen from his arms. It was like they had just lost a family member, which while it was commonplace during the war, still didn't make it any easier for anyone. Everyone's story in their losses was unique, as was their pain in response to it.

They had to get her back. Failure was no option here, in any way, shape or form. Then her and Vinnie could...

Realisation hit Stoker harder than a direct crash into the Quigley field scoreboard, which was hard enough in its own right.

Vinnie was dating Charley now. Had been for around four weeks or so now. It was still early days but a lot of things would be consolidating pretty well by now.

Questions flooded through his mind. What will we say when we find her? How will she take it? Is what little hope she has left in her life being fostered by the fact that she might just see that white-furred, red-eyed, bandoleer-wearing, bike-riding thrillseeker?

Stoker lay back on the chair and steepled his hands in front of his face. He let out a little humourless chuckle.

This was going to be very messy indeed...


	2. Returning Home

To lestelada, the only being from Earth or elsewhere who has reviewed this story. Thanks for your encouragement.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own BMFM, but I do own Spectre, Oblivion, Val and her grumpy old grandpa. If you want to use them in another story, please ask me and I shall give you permission. Happy reading kids.

Returning home

At the same time that Stoker was reading from the folder, there was another dark room, lit by a light that swung back and forth. Far away from Mars, this room wasn't like a living area. Steel bars made up its walls, metal grating for the floor, a scraggly rug lay in the corner which served as a bed of sorts.

It was a prison cell.

Specifically, it was aboard a Plutarkian space shuttle, one that specialised in biological and planetary research. It traveled the galaxy and collected samples from other worlds to see if its natural resources were able to be strip-mined.

At that moment, two burly guards dragged a fifteen year old Martian Cave Mouse by his arms down the corridor, his feet and tail bumping along behind. The mouse was gasping for breath, pain blasting out from his chest as he inhaled even at a shallow level.

One of the guards opened the empty cell, dumped the mouse on the blanket, and left. Fur had been shaved off from his chest and abdomen, and a single surgical cut had been made from the jugular notch of his sternum to the symphysis pubis, and had been roughly stitched back together.

Subject M-2971 coughed and spluttered, and even though these sick experiments were pretty commonplace nowadays, no one would ever get used to being slaughtered and then brought back to life. All this to 'find out everything about your species,' he was told. It was horrible. Not even the most evil of people deserved a fate like this.

It was then that Subject M-2971 had a moment of clarity through his pain;

_I'm gonna die here... _

He remembered back to where he lived on Mars, and he thought about his mother and father. Both of them were the most doting parents; always working long hours to make sure he had food on the table every night, a bed to sleep in, a roof over his head and clothes on his back. His dad had made his bed, the whole house in fact, from scraps of wood from the farm he worked at, and some of the food was given to him by his boss, while his mum made all his clothes and did the majority of the cooking. It was a very humbling lifestyle.

Then he realised that since he was going to die on this outer-space garbage bin, and he would never see his parents again. And he began to weep. Tears streamed down his face from his bright blue eyes and dripped onto the floor. He sniffed, and he took the bottom hem of his shirt and blew his nose. His wails reverberated down the corridor, echoing all the sadness in the hearts of the other prisoners.

Footsteps began to clomp down the hall, and soon one of the guards appeared at the door to his cell and put his face right up to the bars.

"Shut up!" he bellowed. "Keep it down."

The prisoners stopped crying, focused his eyes on the guard, and sneered. He hocked back in his throat and spat at the guard, getting him right in the face. It seemed that in the prisoners adolescence, he had developed a bit of an attitude.

The door opened and the guard sauntered up to him, then kicked the mouse while he was still on the ground. Winded, he rolled over trying to protect himself, but the kicks still kept coming. Suddenly, a boot collided with the suture line. His stomach exploded with fire, the pain enough to cripple the biggest Sabre Squid in the Martian desert.

It then that strangely, the pain gradually disappeared from his body. Time slowed and then, seemingly, stopped. Subject M-2971's eyes darted around to see what was happening, but before anything else happened, a twinge of anger could be felt in his chest. Then a twang. Then a pull. Then the entire feeling shot instantly out throughout his whole body, right to his fingertips and toes. His face began to twist in hate and anger as the feeling of rage took control of his body, reaching up to the guards neck and squeezing his windpipe closed with his hands, which were feeble in comparison. The guards eyes boggled at the sudden display of strength, just as the prisoners sight faded to black.

Spectre's orange eyes sprang open as he awoke from his nightmare, and found himself sitting bolt upright in his sleeping bag. A whisper of light could just be seen through the open tent flap, showing it was nearly sunrise.

He flopped back down and folded his hands behind his head, sighing. He was starting to get these nightmares a bit more than often now. They weren't limited to his times on that particular outer-space flying septic tank; other times were when he was first captured from Mars when he was nine, or sometimes they were during his captivity on Plutark.

It had been a rough few last weeks. In the space of twenty-eight days, he had stolen a Plutarkian space shuttle, crash-landed onto Earth, and then had been brought the rest of the way by members of his own kind. Members he didn't even know existed anymore. Well, not quite that. He figured that the Mice had been brought to the brink of extinction and then scattered across the galaxy, much like many other foreign races that had lost their homes to the brutal force of the Plutarkians. That being said, he didn't honestly think he would live to see another Mouse in his life.

It was culture shock overdrive when he found that not only was his home planet still intact, the small percentage of Mousekind that had survived were working feverishly to rebuild and restore their home, despite great opposition from the Plutarkian occupation. Usually built between scattered military bases and the last of the precious natural resources, small townships and settlements had been erected with farmland forming the outskirts. Food and water were in steady but small supply, and more often than not the Freedom Fighters needed to go out and reclaim land that was semi-strip mined to allow retrieval of natural ores and gazing for mustering livestock. And despite the bleak times, most Martians kept a relatively positive attitude, hoping to see the day that they would be rid of the slime-worthy fishfaces.

Positive attitudes. It was amazing how those could keep you going. Just like his friend in Plutark, who, figuratively speaking, had carried him through the lowest period of his life. Showed him what it was like to feel loved again. Showed him that life was precious, and that it solves nothing if you decide to throw it away. Showed him that in the most darkest of places, light still shines.

"_Light in the darkest places," _Spectre mentally repeated to himself. She was that light in the darkest place for him. They had intended to escape Plutark together, but she had been knocked off his bike halfway during their escape and recaptured. He could just remember her yelling to him to keep going and that she would be fine, moments before they grabbed her by the arms and dragged her away. He closed his eyes, and held back the tears. She was had given everything she possibly had for him, and he felt so guilty for it. He tried to remember back to the escape, if he should have taken this turn here or if he had gone straight for another fifty metres there, whether or not she would be here with him now. But it was useless thinking about it now.

The sun had risen fully now, welcoming the morning and showing that it was going to be another stinking hot day. After having a small breakfast, he packed up his campsite and stowed it on the back of his motorcycle, who he had called Oblivion.

Designed in the style of a racing sports bike, Oblivion's dark purple body housed an impressive array of weaponry. The middle of her body contained a grenade launcher, capable of flinging Martian grenades over a sizable distance. Two compact miniguns were situated just in front of the handlebars, capable of firing around 1200 shots per minute, and two medium-impact pulse lasers were sitting underneath the back seat, where his camp equipment now sat. The bike was also equipped with front and rear tow cables and an engine with more power than any sports car on Earth.

Throwing his leg over the seat and kicking the stand up, he continued riding to a place where he had once called "home." The small shire of Crateric, which wasn't too far away now, had been mostly destroyed during the war. But he may still find clues to the identity of his family and perhaps if they were still alive.

All he could do was hope.

*

About an hour later, Spectre reached the top of the last rise that overlooked Crateric. He looked down and saw a valley which was about as long as the Grand Canyon but four or five times wider. A dry creek bed wound its way through the rocks, with sandy desert stretching from its banks to the foot of the canyon. He could see a scant amount of houses, a large shed of some description, and a few fields where a few animals were grazing and crops were grown. Many craters surrounded the area, which was common since it was how the town got its name, but hardly any of them were natural; they were the work of heavy explosives and shelling.

He glanced around at the surrounding area, trying to see if anything here could jog his memory. Signs, a rock formation. Finding nothing, he continued his descent towards the village at a steady speed. He took in every minute detail of the area, from the yellow-brown sand, different to that of the Martian badlands, to the deep crimson edges of sheer rock. Old scraps of wood formed fences of a field that could easily be knocked over by the paddocks emaciated inhabitants, marking the outskirts of the village.

Spectre pulled up to a house, kicked the stand out and got off Oblivion. Stretching he looked around for anyone he could ask about his family. He saw a woman in one of the windows, but it was only briefly, as she slammed the window shut at the very sight of a stranger in the town. A few other houses did the same, while pushing their children behind them.

Spectre retracted the visor on his helmet, but still kept it on his head. Even if someone still lived here before he was abducted, they wouldn't be able to recognise him. His fur was a darker color, his ears were roughly cut into triangles, and his eyes were the feral-looking orange color that made him look evil. He couldn't even remember his real name.

He heard a door open behind him. He turned, and flinched at the sight.

An old mouse, probably over the age of seventy, aimed a rifle at him. The weapon was old, and the aged man's aim was shaky, meaning the thing could go off any second.

Spectre raised his hands "I mean you no harm, old man," he said clearly, but in a non-threatening manner.

"You have no business here," the old man stepped towards him and shoved him in the chest with the muzzle of the gun. "Get out of here, or I'll blow away what little heart you Sand-Raider dogs have."

"Ok, o...wait. I'm not a Sand-Raider!" Spectre's voice almost sounded offended. "I'm a mouse, like you."

"I can't tell with my eyesight laddie. If I don't know you then I don't trust you," the old man still shook the gun at him.

"Grandpa! What are you doing?" a female's voice called out.

"Stay back Val! It's a Sand-Raider!"

"Grandpa, it's not a Sand-Raider! He's one of us," the voice called again.

Spectre looked over the old mans shoulder to see a young lady, not much younger than him, standing in the doorway from where the old man had emerged. She had a slight frame, white fur and shoulder length blonde hair that was tied back in a ponytail. Her eyes were like emeralds, glittering green in the morning sunlight. She wore a turtleneck shirt with the sleeves ripped off, brown cargo pants and mountain boots.

The girl called Val stepped forward and pointed the gun away from Spectre, who released the breath he was holding as she did so.

"Thanks," he said.

"I'm sorry about Grandpa, he can't see very well, and if he doesn't recognise your voice he thinks your a Rat or a Sand-Raider," Val said.

Spectre waved his hand. "It's alright, no harm done."

"And because we don't have any machinery here, anything that sounds like a motor is always someone coming to steal from us."

"That's too bad. How often do they come?"

"Maybe...twice a month," Val answered.

Spectre squinted at her, trying to see if he might have known who she was. She was remarkably attractive, but in more ways than one. Sure, her physical glamour would win her admiration from far and wide. Her hair, her pristine fur, perfectly white teeth, a face that looked as if it was crafted by the Martian goddess of beauty, and _those_ eyes. But there was more than that; it was the way she looked when she was curious, when she was apologetic, when she was being factual. All of these he had seen in her within the last twenty seconds or so. He was suddenly aware he was staring, and heard her asking a question.

"What brings you out here?"

Spectre stiffened. "I'm looking for a couple of people. I was sent out here because I think they used to live here."

"Oh ok," the young girl seemed glad to help, but didn't offer much hope. "What are their names? I've been here my whole life so I can probably tell you."

"I, um...I actually don't remember."

Val arched an eyebrow.

Spectre frowned, trying to think of something to say. "Look, I used to live here as well...this is Crateric, right?"

"Correct," the old man said.

"Yeah, well," he stammered, before sighing. "I was abducted by Plutarkians when I was about eight or nine, and I can only remember fragments of my childhood. I just wanted to see if I could find some information on whether or not my family is alive or dead," he said simply. He was hopeless at lying or making up stories on the spot.

Val made to say something, but her grandfather's ears twitched several times. His eyes began to narrow, before color began to drain from his face and his mouth fell open.

"What is it, Grandpa? What do you hear?" Val asked.

The old mouse looked terrified, before glaring at the newest arrival into town. "He's – he's brought them here," he stuttered, pointing a shaky finger at him.

"Brought who here? I'm alone," Spectre said defensively.

"Hush," Val whispered.

Spectre piped down and used his acute hearing to try and locate what the old man had picked up. It was faint, but it was getting louder. It sounded like a combination between some sort of mechanical noise and a deep rumbling echo, similar to thunder. His eyes followed the tracks his bike made back out through the canyon, which was where the echoes seemed to be approaching from. He turned back to Val, who now had a pistol aimed at his face.

"Who's side are you on?" she asked viciously.

"Wha-?" Spectre asked, completely bamboozled by Val's total one-eighty she had pulled.

"You just brought the Sand-Raiders to us again. Either you're with them, or they've followed your tracks."

"I swear to you, I'm not with those scummy hyenas in any way, shape or form," Spectre said, his hands raised.

No one else could say another word, for at that moment, a shower of laser fire rained down all around them. Clouds of sand exploded from the ground as the bombardment caused total carnage upon the little, defenseless village. It was at that moment that the offending monstrosities came into view.

It was a group of Sand-Raider attack walkers. Standing about twenty five feet tall, painted an ugly maroon color and bearing several high-impact laser guns, they were a deadly force by themselves. However, a group of about seven had rounded the corner and were firing indiscriminately at various objects within the canyon walls.

Spectre tried to cover Val and her grandfather with his body when a shot hit the area near Oblivion, the force of it knocking her over onto her side.

"Obie!" he called out, before glaring at the incoming machines. "Bastards..."

"You have no idea," Val yelled above the din.

Spectre remembered he was still ushering them back towards their shack. They were almost there, when a blast smashed into the front garden path, sending gravel and dirt into the air. Val and her grandpa buckled to their knees, coughing and spluttering as they breathed the dust in.

Spectre let out the breath he held when the dust settled, and growled at the intruders. He drew a pistol from one of the holsters on his belt and let off a few shots, then turned back to his fellow Mice and looked at Val through her watery eyes.

"Get inside!" he yelled. "I'll cover you!"

Spectre ran out into the open, firing at the machines to draw their attention away from any of Crateric's few remaining citizens, letting out a vicious battle cry as he rained hell on those who were doing the same to his former home. The tactic seemed to work, as the walkers started to aim their weapons at the only being putting up a fight against them.

"Time to go," he said, before he put his fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly for his bike, whereupon the racing style beast picked itself up from the ground and rushed obediently to his feet. Holstering the pistol, he grabbed the handlebars and took off, the tyres squealing like a banshee, with the Sand-Raiders in white-hot pursuit. Spectre began led the pack of purulent pirates away from the houses and raced towards a narrow gully on the other side of the village.

"Hopefully they will stumble over themselves and they take each other out," Spectre said to himself. But that was all he could say, because all the firepower that was bombarding Crateric was now being directed solely _at him!_

Gunning the engine even harder than what he already was, Spectre entered the gully and bought himself a little time as the Sand-Raiders sorted themselves out at the entrance, but were soon on his tail again.

The dark purple motorcycle tore through the canyon at breakneck speed, the engine screaming like a Lamborghini Gallardo in a tunnel. He could hear them close behind him, their lasers creating thundering echoes in the confined space. Giant boulders fell from all around, the impacts rattling the tiny gorge right to the ground.

Specter grunted at the smaller pieces of rocky shrapnel hit his skin and pinged off his helmet. He tried to engage his rear lasers, but he had strapped his camping gear over them, so they couldn't extend from the main body. Taking a knife strapped to his boot one handed, all the while trying to avoid the incoming laser fire with one hand on the handlebars. Finding the strap, he slashed it and the packs came flying off from the sheer speed he was traveling at.

A robotic whirring noise could just be heard as the lasers moved into place. Spectre looked at the small screen on the dashboard of the bike, which had a little camera display from the rear of the bike. He lined up one of the red, hulking machines in the crosshairs and hit the trigger - two electric blue beams of energy shot out from the bike and hit one of the walkers in its body, putting a large hole in its armour. It shuddered under the impact, sparks oozing from the hole, before it spontaneously exploded and sending its crew sailing sky-high.

The other five or six other walkers were unperturbed; they ignored their fallen comrade and kept chasing him, firing hard on his arse. A Sand-Raider popped out from one of the maroon machines brandishing a pistol and started taking pot-shots at the fleeing mouse.

"_Great...one more set of shots I have to avoid," _Spectre thought. It was at this precise moment that one of the stray blasts clipped his shoulder, sending a burning, tingling sensation straight down to his fingertips. He grunted and tried to keep focused on his course through the gully and keeping Oblivion from crashing - all the while trying to get another bead on the hounds behind him, but due to his constant weaving and their moving, it was nigh on impossible. He searched around for another option. _Any_ option.

He tried to think about what the Biker Mice would do...

_Destroy everything._

But he couldn't get a clear shot at them. Wait a minute...

_Everything._

He glanced quickly at the narrow path through the canyon he was riding in now.

_Perfect..._

Spectre unfolded the two miniguns from Oblivion's body and held the trigger down, holding on for all he was worth - the miniguns shook and rattled Oblivion's chassis right to the core. Sure, they were devastating weapons in their own right, but they had the side effect of making the bike hellishly unstable in long bursts, especially at high speeds. Nevertheless, he kept shooting at the walls of rock, showering him with red-colored stones and dust.

After around twenty seconds of firing into the walls, he unloaded the other impressive weapon; the grenade launcher. Setting his sights on an area just above a spot with countless bullet-holes, he fired two shots.

_KER-CHUNK! KER-CHUNK!_

The two grenades hit their mark perfectly, creating a large cloud that Spectre rode through blindly. He emerged out the other side, with the Sand-Raiders still hard on him, but then he heard his plan coming to fruition.

The hole he had blown out in the wall of the canyon, after being weakened from the minigun fire, had created an large overhang inside the ravine. It was so big, however, that it had become too topheavy, and began to crumble at the base. Finally the weight was too much, and the entire slab of rock fell down into the narrow gorge.

Thick clouds of dust and massive chucks of rocks smashed down to where Spectre and the Sand-Raiders were, threatening to pulverise them into nothing. The slab blotted out the sunlight, casting a dark shadow over those who were underneath, making seeing how to avoid the falling rocks even more difficult. The groaning and cracking from the slab was deafening, even putting Oblivion's engine and the thudding of the walkers feet to shame.

Spectre knew he had to be fast. A deluge of boulders were coming down hard, threatening to block his only escape route out of the gorge, which was about a hundred metres away.

He kicked Oblivion into a higher gear, and floored it.

_Eighty metres..._

The Sand-Raiders saw him getting away, and opened fire with their lasers as a last-ditch resort.

_Sixty metres..._

Spectre engaged the rocket boosters, and immediately felt his insides churn around like a washing machine from the intense increase of speed.

_Forty metres..._

The giant slab of stone, easily the width of the canyon, fell fast from above. There was no way, if it hit the ground before he got out, that Spectre would leave the area alive.

_Twenty metres..._

The Sand-Raiders lined up their final shot as Spectre gritted his teeth together, feeling the adrenaline rush through his veins as he made the maddest dash ever in his life.

The rock fell.

The Sand-Raiders fired.

Spectre charged.

_BOOM!_

**Authors Note:** Please review! Never underestimate the power of your constructive words to aspiring writers... Take care.


	3. Meeting the Legend

Many thanks to delunatic for their review - sorry it hasn't come sooner. Also, may I make a mention to Mad-Eyed Owl, who wrote a lovely reply to me. Her story is epic too.

As for everyone else, I hope you enjoy the following chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything to do with the BMFM. Balls.

Chapter Three: Meeting the legend.

_Back on Earth..._

The Biker Mice pulled into the Last Chance and killed the engines. They pulled off their helmets but Charley had jumped down the final few stairs and started waving her arms.

"No, no! Leave your helmets on. We're going somewhere," she called out.

"Huh? Where we goin'?" Vinnie slightly put off by Charley's immediate need to be off. He didn't even get a kiss.

"You'll see. Let's go, hotshot!" she said as she climbed onto the back on his bike. She hurriedly patted his shoulder, clearly excited by something.

Complying with Charley's wishes, the three bikers pivoted on the spot and were guided to a slightly run-down area of the city. Some of the buildings were crumbling and in a state of disrepair, but others were still busy and active. Such was the the one they had parked in front of. It was tall, rusty orange in color and had a radio antenna on the top with the letters "PSGB" arranged vertically on it.

This was Sweet Georgie Brown's radio station.

"Uh, babe...what are we doing here?" Vinnie asked. He had an idea as to why, but his mind just couldn't quite accept that it might be true.

"Well, you guys don't have a phone half the time because it's been broken by your horseplay..."

"Yeah...?" said Throttle.

"And Sweet Georgie Brown has a request to ask you..."

"Yeah...?" Modo chimed, a grin starting to form across his face.

"So I thought I would bring you here to ask him!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands in the air as if she had just presented something.

"Oh sweetheart," Vinnie said, completely lost for words at finally being able to meet their heavy metal playing hero. "That's awesome!" was all he could spit out, before scooping her into a massive hug. It was so unbelievable beyond reasoning, that it was actually happening.

"You really look out for us, Charley-ma'am," Modo smiled.

"Yeah babe, can't say I was expecting this," Throttle chuckled.

They made their way into the building and were greeted at the door by none other than the man himself who brought Heaven to their ears day after day.

Standing about as tall as Throttle, with sandy blonde hair to his shoulders, blue eyes, a stubble covered chin and enough muscle to rival the average bodybuilder, Sweet Georgie Brown grinned a perfect set of pearly whites at the three Martians and petite mechanic as they approached.

"Hey dudes! Thanks for coming," he called out in his trademark smooth voice. "Wow, you really _are_ out of this world!"

It took all of two seconds for the Biker Mice to pummel the DJ with all sorts of questions. Anything from heavy metal to sports to food and back to heavy metal again. Their entire conversation extended to a random hot dog stand in the park and then back to the radio station.

"It's amazing you guys haven't been seen on any tube stations," commented Sweet Georgie. "I mean, six-and-a-half-foot tall mice riding around on swell bikes are sure to get some attention."

"Adding the fact you blow everything up in your travels," chimed Charley.

Vinnie gulped down a mouthful of root beer. "Well, it is standard macho hero work, Charley-girl."

"Yeah, an' we only blow up stuff that belongs to Limburger," said Modo's deep voice.

"Limburger? As in Lawrence Limburger? The industrialist tycoon dude?" Sweet Georgie asked.

"The very same," Throttle's voice was low.

"Man, I _knew_ that guy was something fishy!" exclaimed Sweet Georgie, not knowing how close he was to the truth. "We get heaps of trouble from him and his goons all the time. It makes living here look like a real bummer."

"What are you talking about?" asked Throttle, his eyes narrowed behind his field specs.

"Sometimes the cribs here get taken from the owners under these really weird circumstances. Like their repayments don't make it through the system. The apartments all get knocked down, but the warehouses are usually left standing. Sometimes heavy-looking dudes go in and out of them, but mostly they just sit there, chilling. The only thing they have in common is the "LP" logo on the front, which is the same as the Limburger one."

"Where did you say these places were?" asked Charley.

Sweet Georgie shrugged. "There's a few just a couple of blocks down the road. Can't miss 'em."

Modo's eye glared red when he heard of people being evicted from their homes. All those innocent folks. All those kids! Kids with nowhere to stay except on the street, and eating scraps of food out of the bin. Throttle and Vinnie were also seriously pissed off. The root beer had gone somewhat sour, and the hot dogs tasted like rubber.

"Sorry to bring the party to a close, my man,"said Vinnie, patting Sweet Georgie's shoulder. "But us mammajammers have to go whip some tail!"

"Wait," said the hard-rocking DJ as the mice began walking out the door. "That word, 'mammajammer,' do you reckon I can use it on the radi-yo?"

"Are you kidding? Sure! Anything for my favourite metal mashing music-maker."

"Sweet, later dudes!" Sweet Georgie called out from the front door waving his hand, which was the size of a dinner plate.

As they neared the bikes, Throttle turned to Charley.

"Uh-uh, sorry Charley-girl. We've got this," he said.

"Huh? What?" she asked, incredulous.

"You might get hurt, like that time with Corroder Cody," the tan mouse said, with Modo nodding in agreement.

She rolled her eyes, before turning to the most macho of the group and played the girlfriend card.

"Vinnie, sexy," she said with her eyelashes fluttering like butterflies and her fingertips rubbing just behind his collarbone. "Can I come along with you?"

Vinnie closed his eyes and laughed gently to himself. He was stubborn and had a lot of resolve at the best of times, but it all seemed to turn to goo and slip right through his fingers when Charley crooked her pinky or made her eyes look like a puppy's. He could hear his bros sniggering behind him, knowing that he was going to cave in a matter of seconds.

"Well babe, it might get really dangerous, especially if Limburger's goons are there..." he mustered all his might in protest.

"Please, sweety?" she begged, before adding the sweetener. "I'll make it worth your while."

What little of Vinnie's strength in protesting was instantly washed away like a house built on sand. He turned to his commander. "Well, come on Throttle. Sweet Georgie Brown even said they weren't even used much. There's probably no one there."

Throttle chuckled at Vinnie's inability to say no to Charley, now that they were in a relationship. "Fine," he said. "But if we run into trouble, you're out of there."

After trundling down the road for a couple of blocks, the quartet came across a couple of warehouses bearing the "LP" logo that belonged to Limburger Enterprises. They stood side by side. One was tall, longer, and looked like it had been around for a while. The other was short and stocky with a large smokestack looming behind it, and looked as if it had only been built that year. It looked more like a factory than a warehouse.

Throttle scrutinised the two buildings closely, then started to evaluate the newer one. How could a structure so small have such a massive exhaust stack. It didn't add up. Whatever the reason, they had to get inside and look around.

"Come on, bro!" Vinnie said impatiently. "Let's check this place out."

They parked the bikes in an inconspicuous location, and then sneaked around the back. After burning the lock off with a flare, Vinnie entered first, determined to show off his bravery and skill to Charley.

There was a light on in the first room which appeared to be some form of security office. Vinnie peered around the corner to find a single occupant with his back to the door, completely engrossed in a naughty magazine. The white mouse crept behind him and tapped the guard on the shoulder.

"Hehe," he chuckled. "Did you want this back, Bruno?"

"Nah, I got something much better," Vinnie replied.

The guard spun around but didn't even get a glance at the offender, as his face was met with Vinnie's fist. The punch landed solidly on his nose and sent him flying against the wall, unconscious.

The three mice and Charley continued onwards, and soon found themselves in the main storage area of the warehouse. It was mostly sparse, save for a computer terminal on the wall closest to the smokestack and a large, solid looking door right next to it. Charley went over to the terminal and started tapping away, trying to find out what was happening.

"What do you think it is, Charley-girl?" Throttle asked.

She frowned, still bringing up different schematics and plans of the complex, but all of them were pretty non-specific and uninteresting – it was as if the Big Cheese had actually gotten himself some sort of legitimate working business, sans the less-than-honest method of getting the land to build it on.

"It all looks pretty unappetising. Nothing worth getting excited over," she said.

"Aww...buzzkill," Vinnie scoffed, kicking the dust on the floor.

"So, what are we waitin' for? Let's trash this place," said Modo, still ropeable that this site had probably once been an apartment block.

"Wait, big fella," Throttle tried to calm his grey counterpart. "Cheese-face is probably gonna use this place for something, but hasn't finished yet. We'll leave it for now, but keep an eye on it. I wanna know what he's up to."

"But the guard will report we've been here..."

"No sweat, bro, he didn't even get a chance to see us," Vinnie said arrogantly while putting his hands behind his head. "It's a talent, being this good," he remarked, waggling his eyebrows at Charley.

Modo's shoulders slumped a little. "Well, alright then," he drawled. "Let's get going."

As they crept through the back alleys back to the bikes, Charley spoke quietly.

"Is Modo ok?" she asked, out of his earshot.

"Yeah, he'll be fine. He takes it pretty personal when innocents get hurt or their homes get destroyed. It's everybody's right to ride free, as his grey furred mama says." He smiled, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "He'll be ok."

"He's an awesome mouse," murmured Charley.

Vinnie then cleared his throat, as if to make a statement.

"You know what I mean, hotshot," she replied teasingly.

As they rode off, Vinnie peeled off from the group to drop Charley off home, while Modo and Throttle continued to the scoreboard. They made good time, with the streets being next to bare on the weeknight. The white mouse could feel his girlfriends arms wrap tighter around his mid-section as he took a corner faster than normal or sped up to avoid getting a red light, giving him a bigger rush than any insane stunt he had pulled off before, Earth or Mars. As Vinnie pulled up at the Last Chance, he gently lifted Charley off the back seat with his tail.

"Why don't you come in for a root beer?" Charley asked.

"You know I can't say no to that, babe," Vinnie replied charmingly.

After leading him into the kitchen and grabbing a bottle from the fridge, she left the room and said to make himself comfortable – she was just going to freshen up. Vinnie went to the TV and switched it on, but there wasn't really much on. Just the usual telemarketing junk, with products so boring it even lulled insomniacs to sleep.

He wondered what that spunky mechanic was up to; she was probably playing some sort of joke on him. He finished the bottle of root beer and made to leave the lounge to find her when he stopped dead in his tracks.

Charley stood in the doorway, one arm stretched up the doorframe and the other resting on her hip. She was only wearing a black tank top and black lacy boy-shorts, her hair was tousled and there was definitely a devilish glint in her green eyes. She smiled seductively at Vinnie, who was turning red at an exponential rate. She walked slowly towards him, swaying her hips and wrapped her arms around his neck. She stood on her toes and kissed him deeply on the lips, running her hands across his shoulders and along his muscular arms.

It was then that Vinnie seemed to come back to reality after stunning him with her little surprise and began to return the kiss, dancing his fingers from the small of her back up to her shoulder blades and down again, making her shiver with delight.

Their lips parted and they gazed into each others eyes. After a long moment, Charley rested her head on his chest. She loved the feel of his soft fur against her skin. She closed her eyes, enjoying the moment when Vinnie leaned his head down and whispered into her ear;

"I love you, Charley-girl."

Her eyes sprang open again. Her heart fluttered and felt like it was about to burst from her chest. Her skin erupted with goose-pimples even though it was a warm night. She drew in a deep breath as she felt the butterflies in her tummy suddenly multiply in number.

"Oh, Vinnie," she gasped, managing to find her tongue again. "I love you, too."

She hugged him as tightly as she could, pressing her body against his. She could feel the bulge in his pants, and Vinnie knew that she wanted him too. The two began breathing heavily, their hands exploring each others bodies and their mouths united once more.

Finally, Charley couldn't stand it any more. "Vinnie," she said between kisses. "Come to bed, baby."

Barely twenty seconds had passed when the door to the bedroom was almost knocked off its hinges and the two beings tumbled onto the bed. Charley quickly leapt on top and started to rip off Vinnie's bandoleers, before tossing them aside and resuming the assault of his lips with hers. Vinnie then used his superior strength to roll her over so now he was on top.

"A mouse could really get used to this, Charley-girl," the white-furred, musclebound mammal said with a wink.

Charley opened her mouth to speak when Vinnie placed his finger over her mouth and frowned, his ears twitching. He slowly stood up and cautiously peered out the back window.

"Vincent! You better have a damn good reason for this," Charley said in a huff.

"Sh-sh," he replied quietly, then crept back over to the bed and grabbed his laser. He didn't need to flick the safety catch off – Vinnie himself had removed it years ago.

Charley recognised what was happening and pulled some jeans on. "What's going on?" she whispered.

"Company," Vinnie said grimly. Truth be told, Vinnie wouldn't have minded a bit of rough and tumble. Limburger had been gone too long and his knuckles were getting itchy. But he had to contend with the issue of Charley's safety. Adding the fact that they had just been interrupted in the beginning of a loving and intimate moment really brought Vinnie's blood to the boil. Bastards.

He had just slung his bandoleers back over his shoulders when the first goons kicked the door down, but they were suddenly met with laser fire from Vinnie and they held their position at the top of the stairs.

Vinnie eyed the door, and then glanced around the room for an exit. But given the fact that there was only one door for the room, they had to use less-than-conventional means for Earthlings.

"Charley-girl, down," he said, bringing his pistol around. Charley did as she was told and he fired two blasts that knocked the pane of glass that was the window out of its frame. He put a couple of fingers to his mouth and whistled loudly. "Yo, bike! Let's make like a tree and get the hell outta here!"

The red racer navigated itself into the alleyway and raced up the wall to the second storey where both Vinnie and Charley leapt out the window and onto the saddle. Vinnie grabbed the handlebars with one hand and gave the goons the one-fingered salute with the other as they both took off into the night.

Modo and Throttle placed their now empty root beer bottles on top of the table and belched loudly. It was past midnight, and Vinnie should have been back now. Modo was about to try and raise him on the radio when an incoming call beat him to it.

"Hey punks, you there?" Stoker's gravelly voice called out over the speaker.

"Yo, Stoker! How you doin'?" Modo picked the receiver up.

"Good, bro. Heard you guys kicked Limburger's ass outta orbit to Plutark."

"Yeah," Throttle spoke up. "But we found some areas of Chicago that he's bought but not using. Leaving warehouses intact, but demolishing apartment blocks and building factories in their place. Don't know what he's up to – yet."

Stoker frowned, then changed the subject. "Is the punk there?"

"He's at Charley's place," Throttle chuckled, knowing why he was probably taking a bit longer than usual. Quite a bit longer.

Stoker grunted his amusement. "Damn. Listen bros, we got a problem here on Mars that I need your help with. It's personal to all of us, but...it's gonna cut Vincent deeper than the rest of us."

Have fun kiddies. If you review, I will give you some muffins or chocolate chip pancakes, whichever you prefer. Really, I will.


	4. The Suicide Mission

This chapter came to a bit quicker than anticipated, but I don't mind that at all. But that's ok, because then the story gets finished quicker. Woot.

Thanks to Oberoniss and NightLight for their reviews. Your words mean a lot to me, both personally and professionally (as professional as Fan Fiction can get :P).

On a separate note, I want to make a mention to CuriousFan for her review of the prequel, 'Feral Rage.' Many thanks for that, and Spectre is slowly but surely revealing a bit about himself every time. He gets a bit weird with new people, you see :P

Anyways, enjoy people :)

Chapter 4: The Suicide Mission.

_Near Crateric, Planet Mars._

A colossal cloud of dust shot up into the sky and rushed out from the epicenter of the impact like an avalanche. It was so thick that the sunlight couldn't penetrate it. Nothing could have survived the fifty tonne landslide into the mouth of the canyon.

As the dust cloud began to slow, a purple motorbike burst into the light and skidded to a stop. A racing style bike that had just escaped being squashed flatter than a pancake. Well, not quite escaped. The tail section had been clipped by the boulder as it tore underneath, making a few unsightly scratches in the paintwork.

Spectre kept his helmet on and absent-mindedly brushed the dirt off his clothes while looking at the collapsed section of the canyon that was slowly coming into view. He wasn't too worried about the Sand-Raiders – he was pretty certain they wouldn't be raiding anything ever again. It was just a shame he had to total the entry to the gully to stop them.

_Bloody Sand-Raiders._

He sighed, and then remembered the people back in the village of Crateric. He put Oblivion into gear and rode back where he came from, making a small detour into the canyon to pick up the camping equipment he cut loose earlier..

About ten minutes later, he arrived back into town and his face fell. The town was in shambles – the majority of the paddocks had been trampled with the crops ruined, most houses had more than a few holes blasted through them, debris was strewn about everywhere. The people stopped cleaning up the devastation and just stared at him, their faces blank. Spectre didn't know whether it was a good thing or a bad thing. They weren't pissed off, but they didn't seem pleased about what happened either.

He navigated his way through the potholes and came back to the house where Val and her grandfather lived. As he killed the engine, he could hear the old man wailing and groaning in pain, with Val talking in a soft tone, trying to calm him. There was a third voice, another male, who was saying things like "Hold it steady," and "Keep the pressure on."

Spectre stuck his head inside and saw Val's grandfather lying on what looked like the dining table, and Val holding both his arms and shoulders down so the third figure – presumably a doctor – could remove a large fragment of metal from his lower leg. Blood had dripped and formed a pool underneath the table, and rags of every size lay strewn on the floor, also covered with the stuff.

"Keep him still!" the doctor said.

"I'm frigging trying!" Val replied angrily.

The doctor was about to try and find a strap or something to stop the leg from moving all over the place when a third pair of hands came into view, one of them carrying a Freedom Fighters field kit. He looked up to see a young mouse with orange eyes get a green cylinder out of it and stick one end into the old man's mouth.

"Suck on that, it will help with the pain," said Spectre. His helmet was still on.

"You!" Val yelled.

"You know each other?" said the doctor.

"He brought the Sand-Raiders here!"

"Unintentionally."

"How do we know you're not with them?"

"Because I just buried them under fifty tonnes of rock!" Spectre snapped.

"You...what?" Val's voiced changed from angry to incredulous.

"They're dead."

"Dead?"

"Dead."

"Wha...How?"

"Plenty of time to talk about that after we help your grandpa," Spectre motioned to the elderly man who had stopped moaning and now looked rather dazed with his eyes glazed over.

"What did you give him?" Val asked, frowning.

"Halothane...What? I don't know how it works, I just know it's good for pain," Spectre said when Val gave him a rather questioning look.

A tourniquet had already been placed just below the knee, so with Val keeping an eye of her grandfather, the doctor and Spectre set about trying to remove the piece of shrapnel. They had to be quick – the halothane lasted less than ten minutes in humans, and it would undoubtedly be even shorter in Martian Mice.

Spectre held the wound as open as he could, and the doctor tried to wiggle the metal free. It was shaped like a 'V' with one of the higher points embedded in the bone and the other penetrating the nearby muscle.

The doctor grabbed a bigger set of forceps that looked like they would be more at home at the Last Chance Garage, told Spectre to brace either side of the wound, grasped the piece of metal and pulled _hard_. He grunted with exertion, and on the third pull, it came free. Blood issued from the muscular wound, which was quickly stopped up with another rag by Spectre.

The doctor placed the offending metallic object into a dish and took over from the rag. He peeled it back to see a trickle of blood continually running from where it punctured the muscle. He really hoped that was all it had done.

"Release the tourniquet."

Within a couple of seconds, the trickle turned into a waterfall, and the doctor put pressure back on with a sigh. His tibial artery had been clipped. Val saw his dejection in his face and went white under her fur.

"I'm sorry Val."

"No! NO!" she screamed. "We have to do something!"

"His artery has been cut. I can't fix it here, and..." he stopped as Val buried her face in his chest. "And we can't get him somewhere who can fix it in time."

Spectre took over holding the rag as the doctor consoled the white mouse. The halothane was wearing off, and the old man was breathing heavily and groaning again.

"Val," he croaked.

The girl turned to the voice, and rushed back to her grandfathers side. "I'm here, Grandpa."

"I'm...I'm dying, Val."

"No...no, you're fine, Grandpa," she managed to smile through her tears.

As they spoke, Spectre saw the doctor cock his head to the door, silently saying _"Let's leave them to it."_ He moved the tourniquet over the top of the cloth he was holding over the wound and slowly tightened it until the old man winced. The two male mice then left the young woman to spend her grandfather's last few minutes together.

Both men walked until they were standing next to Oblivion, who was parked about seven metres from the door. They said nothing for a few minutes, until the doctor spoke up.

"That was brave, what you did before."

"You guys looked like you needed some help there with him."

"I meant before that."

Spectre turned to face him.

"When you led them down there," said the doctor, jerking his chin at the entrance to the canyon.

"Well, they won't be bothering you anymore."

The doctor smiled sadly. "Doubt it." He saw Spectre's questioning look. "A whole lot of them have set up a base about thirty miles around the cliff," he said, pointing his finger the way that Spectre had first entered the village and hooking it to the left. "They will probably send another contingent around here by sundown, since their comrades haven't returned."

Spectre kicked the dirt in frustration. This was getting worse by the minute. First, he had brought a whole lot of Sand-Raiders here who had trashed the place. Then, he had blocked off one of the escape routes for the village. Now, Val's grandfather was on death's door and to top it all off, the Sand-Raiders were going to come back and literally remove Crateric from the sands of Mars. And it was all his fault.

Sighing, he took his helmet off and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Looks like you've been through a lot yourself," the doctor remarked, noticing Spectre's face for the first time. His scarred face, broken teeth and triangular-cut ears sent a shiver down his spine.

"Yeah, you could say that. I'm Spectre."

"Rev."

Spectre cast a glance at the newly-met mouse. He was roughly in his early thirties, with sandy blonde fur and a short mane. He stood about five foot eleven, and had a toned appearance, which his form fitting shirt and pants accentuated.

"You the doctor around here?" Spectre asked.

"Sort of. I was a medic in the army, and this town hasn't really got anyone else to care for them. So I quit the military and stayed here. These people need me more than the army."

Spectre nodded. "You from these parts?"

"Nah. Born and raised in Brimstone," replied Rev.

The brown furred mouse looked about himself, before looking at the ground. "I'm sorry that, you know... I've essentially doomed the village."

Rev put a hand on his shoulder. "Don't be. They always come back, and they always wrecked or stole everything. It wasn't going to be long before we would be forced to move anyway."

"But I led them here..."

Rev shrugged. "Perhaps, but they're the ones responsible for all this," he said, waving at the smoking buildings. "You don't need to take the blame for someone else's actions. Especially if that someone else is a stinking hyena."

Spectre snuffed a laugh, who felt a bit better in himself. "True that." A wail and loud sobbing coming from the hut caught his attention. He turned to Rev who grimaced and nodded somberly.

Val's grandfather had passed away.

"Damn," said Spectre.

Rev straightened himself up. "Guess I'd better start rounding everyone up. We need to get as far away from here as possible."

"How you getting out of here?"

"On foot."

"Are you nuts? They'll find you by nightfall, provided the desert doesn't kill you first."

"I'm open to suggestion," Rev held his palms open.

Spectre pursed his lips. He knew he couldn't get everyone out of here any more than Rev could. He needed help. And there was only one person he could think of who would at least try.

"Give me a few minutes, I'm gonna make a call."

Spectre mounted his bike and gunned it to the top edge of the valley that Crateric sat in. He opened his camping bag and pulled out a radio with a small satellite dish attached to it. He switched it on and spoke into the handset.

"Hey Stoker, this is Spectre. You copy?" He waited a few seconds, but got no reply. He was about to try again when he heard some shuffling on the other end and a gravelly, half-asleep voice on the other end.

"Who is this?"

"It's Spectre."

"What is it, kid? I've only just got to sleep."

"I made it to Crateric."

Stoker snorted. "You woke me up to tell me _that_?"

"I'm sorry Stoke," replied Spectre. "I got a bit of a problem here."

"Take a number, punk."

Stoker hadn't called him a 'punk' before. He knew he called the Biker Mice that all the time as a form of affection, but he couldn't tell if it was intended as such in his daze. Regardless, Spectre told him about how he had buried the Sand-Raiders and that more would be coming by nightfall.

"I need some help getting these people out of here," he finished.

"Kid, I know how much it hurts to leave people to die, but we won't be able to get there in time. We would get there at about midnight, your time. A couple of hours before at the absolute earliest. By then, they will most likely be dead and Crateric will be long gone."

"What if there were some other Freedom Fighters around and we held the Raiders off until you get here?"

"Again, by the time we get organised it will be too late. Besides, there's no Freedom Fighters in that area," Stoker said, who was still out of it.

Spectre paused for a moment, then raised the handset to his mouth and took a deep breath.

"You got one."

"What? ...No. No, absolutely not. Forget it, kid!"came the rough voice who suddenly became more awake. "You're good on a bike, but you can't take on this many bad guys and think you're gonna live through it!"

"Stoke, I can't leave these people here to die. There's children here," said the younger mouse, before adding, "Besides, when should be _not_ beat the crap out of a bunch of Sand-Raiders?" _Geez,_ he thought, _I sound like Vinnie._

There was silence on the other end of the line before glorious words came over the airwaves. "Alright kid, you win. Getting too old for this..."

"What you say, Coach?" Spectre snickered.

"Nothin', punk," scoffed Stoker. "Do these people have any military hardware at all?"

"Nada."

"Not even infra-red strobes or flares?"

"Very seriously doubt it."

The mentor scratched his forehead, not liking this option. "Look, give your bike's homing beacon to the group, get them out of there and we'll find them. If the goddess is with you, I might see you there too."

"Sure. Hey... Thanks, Stoker."

"Don't thank me, it's what we do. Just be careful."

"Will do," said Spectre, and he clicked the radio off.

Hmm, where to go from here? Thanks for reading!


	5. Introducing The Almosts

Ok, been a while since I've last updated, and I've been wanting to upload this for sooooo long.

First of all... A massive thanks to Mad-Eyed Owl, the author of the story "Karma: A Hunt." In short, I was thinking of using a different author on FanFiction as an inspiration for an upcoming character in this story and possibly others. So I got in contact with Miss Owl who gave her permission for this to happen, and have subsequently come up with a totally bad-arse character who can kick the tar out of pretty much anyone. And for those who haven't yet read Karma's story, do yourself a favour and check it out, and then thank me later... .net/s/3509759/1/Karma_A_Hunt

Also, to Mei Mei who read and reviewed last time, I appreciate it a lot. Matthew Reilly once said "Never underestimate the power of your encouragement." He's right.

So, hopefully I can keep writing a bit more in the near future, now that my personal life is a touch more stable than what it has been the last 12 months. Have fun people.

Chapter 5: Introducing The Almosts.

After packing everything back into his bag, Spectre took off back down to Val's hut, where Rev was still standing. He took off his helmet again and started to remove the tracking beacon.

"Okay," Spectre said as he worked. "The Freedom Fighters are gonna come, but they won't get here till after dark."

"So, what do we do?" Rev asked, confused.

"You are going to lead everyone away from here to a safe place and hole up there." He stood up and handed Rev a small metal cylinder, about the size of a salt shaker. "This is my bike's tracking beacon. The Freedom Fighters will be able to find you with this. They will probably be here around midnight.

"Okay, why are you giving me this? Won't you need it?"

Spectre shook his head. "I'm going to buy you guys some time."

Rev looked confused, and then his shoulders slumped in astonishment. "You're insane."

"I'll be fine."

"You won't be fine."

He shrugged.

"There's a significant difference between taking a calculated risk and going on a suicide mission," Rev scoffed. "I can't ask you to do this."

"Well, you haven't asked me to. So it's all good."

Rev still looked at him like a father would stare at his son after crashing his car, and then shook his head. "Is this what Stoker teaches you guys? To go out in a blaze of glory?"

Spectre flexed his eyebrows. "You call stopping the slaughter of a town going out in a blaze of glory?

What about saving innocent children – is that going out in a blaze of glory too?

Rev paused.

"I'm not doing this to make a statement or to impress anyone… Yes, it's a stupid idea, but these guys need my help – it's the right thing to do."

"You can't do this."

"I'm open to suggestions," Spectre shrugged.

The medic looked away into the distance and felt his eyes begin to water slightly. All his years in the army had told him to be self-preserving, retreating when things got bad and not even trying to fight when the odds were stacked against you. And here was a mouse several years his junior who was willing to give his life so Crateric's inhabitants could escape. A brave stand. Noble, too.

"Spectre, I... Thanks," was all he could say.

The brown mouse looked up and smiled. "Don't need to."

Rev left him and entered the hut where Val was still weeping, while Spectre started making some checks and alterations on his bike. He opened the grenade chamber for the launcher, removed three of them and replaced the lid (leaving ten remaining in the chamber – the total capacity was fifteen). He attached the three to his belt and then began to clean out the air filter. He was working so intently that he didn't notice the footsteps approaching until they were quite close.

It was Val, standing less than two feet away.

"I'm coming with you," she said. No words or time wasted here.

"Look, I'm sorry about your grandpa and..."

"Don't change the subject."

"I can't let you come along."

Val bristled. "Why not?"

Spectre frowned at her. "Do you have any idea what I'm going to do?"

"You're gonna go after the Sand-Raiders. Rev told me."

"I'm not sure you understand," he said as Val crossed her arms across her chest. "I'm going to be taking on a superior enemy force. In their base. Without backup. The word 'suicide' is what sums this up and I don't need to bring anyone else with me."

Val didn't answer. Instead, she kicked some dirt into the air filter that Spectre was cleaning, ruining his previous efforts. He rolled his eyes.

"Give me one good reason why I should take you along," he said.

"They killed my pa!" she almost yelled.

"In that case, definitely not," he replied as he tapped the filter against his leg, becoming frustrated. He gave Val a fierce glare that was accentuated by his orange eyes. "You want revenge?"

Val nodded.

Spectre considered her. "Join the Freedom Fighters. They will feed, clothe, shelter…"

"I couldn't give a damn about those reckless bastards."

"They are the toughest hombres around. But for now, you're not cut out for this kind of thing." He realized what he was saying, and sighed. "I'm sorry, but this is too dangerous and I can't take you with me."

"Oh, so I suppose you know all about it then?"

"Matter of fact, I do," Spectre said, before kneeling and reattaching the air filter.

By now, Val was beyond boiling point. She had seen the ugliest side of war, lost more things than anyone should lose during their life, and now there was this outsider who was telling her what she could and couldn't do. She spoke in a deathly whisper; "If you don't let me come, I will kick your ass, right now."

Spectre paused what he was doing, and then turned to face her with a sarcastic expression. That was as far as he got though, because at that moment Val began to throw a series of punches aimed squarely at his face. He dodged and ducked, occasionally deflecting a blow if he couldn't avoid it. He jumped backward to get some space for himself, but Val was quickly after him, not allowing a moments rest.

She threw a hard right which he caught. Despite her slight build, his wrist creaked under the pressure of the blow. They both stopped for a second and looked at each other in the eye, and then she tried to hit him with a roundhouse kick. His hand-to-hand combat skills were above average, and he could tell that she was no amateur either. Her stance was good, attacks were accurate and strong.

Admittedly, she could hold her own. But if she wasn't careful and didn't keep her mind on the fight, she wouldn't last long.

If she started to want vengeance, she would get killed.

So far, however, she was keeping her cool and not lashing out with sloppy attacks. She kept a relatively even keel. Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea to bring her along...

He lunged forward and grabbed her in a bear-hug, while using his tail to wrap around her legs in case she tried to knee him in the crotch. She struggled and twisted, but Spectre held her steady.

"Ok, so you can fight," he muttered as he released his hold. "What else can you do?"

Val looked impassive. "I can shoot, run, climb, and shoot some more. Anything you can do, I can as well. Why? Do you think I spent my spare time baking cakes and learning how to knit?"

Spectre pressed his lips together in the way someone looks when they lost an argument. He didn't mean to insinuate that women couldn't fight; it was just that it wasn't commonplace. Even on the Freedom Fighters base, female soldiers were very few in number. He began to wonder why when Val started shouting.

"Hello? Mars to Spectre? Do I get the gig, or _not_?" she said sarcastically.

The brown-furred mouse sighed. "Fine, you can come."

Val shook her fist in triumph, while Oblivion revved in approval.

"What? You're with her?" Spectre asked incredulously.

Oblivion's headlight blinked twice.

Spectre could only facepalm himself at his situation, and began to attempt to reattach the air filter for a third time.

_ 0 _

0

_Same time, back on Earth._

Modo and Throttle could only grimace when they heard Vinnie's bike thunder down the street and launch itself from the car park into the scoreboard. It came to a screeching halt and Vinnie began praising himself for his efforts.

"Whoo! Speed, style and sexiness! I'm so good, that I'm _bad_!" he called loudly, just to make sure everyone heard him.

Charley could only punch him lightly in the shoulder as she got off the saddle. "The only thing bad about that was that line, Vinnie," she said, while rolling her eyes.

Vinnie snorted. "Hey bros, Limburger's goons just crashed Charley's place. We gotta go sort 'em out."

"Uh, Vinnie, something's happened..." Modo began.

"Later bro, we got some tail to whip."

"We got a lead on..." Throttle started.

"Whatever, it can wait! Let's go!"

"Vinnie!" Charley tried. She had noticed that whatever Throttle and Modo knew, it was pretty important. "Let's just hear what they got to say."

Vinnie made a face, and then turned off Sweetheart's engine. "Ok, what's so important that it interferes with compulsory ass-kicking?"

Throttle pushed his shades up. "Why don't you take a seat?"

Vinnie grabbed a chair and sat on it, the back facing the table. His arms were crossed on top of the backrest.

"We got a call from Stoker not long ago," Throttle continued, noticing that Vinnie was starting to see that this wasn't something that could wait. "He says that someone saw Harley a couple of hours ago."

Vinnie sat bolt upright, his ears pricking up at the sound of the familiar name.

"She's back on Mars. And Mace is with her."

Vinnie closed his eyes and tapped his forehead on his arms a few times. He didn't say anything, but his tail was lashing back and forth and his muscles clenched and unclenched. He took a deep breath and looked at Charley.

"Babe, can you...give us a few minutes?"

She nodded slowly in understanding, and left the scoreboard to sit in the empty grandstand. It wasn't long when she heard some grunting and hushed whispers, and then came the horrible crashing of splintering wood and a couple of bodies falling on the floor. Something made of glass broke, and then a series of punches as the three of them began to fight.

_Of course it wouldn't last_, she thought. _How could I be so stupid?_

She knew there would come a day where Harley came back on the scene. Maybe his subconscious had convinced him that she was gone forever, and that it was time to move on. And while time had buried her deeper and deeper, the sudden breakthrough that she was alive had brought her back to the surface quicker than an express elevator.

She rested her head on her fist and muttered some rather nasty expletives to herself. The boys were still having their therapy session in the scoreboard. As she fumed to herself, she began to remember the reasons why she was attracted to Vinnie. Sure, he was very over-the-top, cocky and flirtatious, but he also looked out for her, protected her and appreciated all her help for their cause. He made her laugh with all his corny lines. Not to mention his boyish good looks and a body that simply dripped with sex appeal.

Perhaps she shouldn't jump to conclusions so quickly. He had even said that he loved her only minutes before – Mice didn't make those sorts of statements unless they meant it. Even one who ogled at everything with two X chromosomes.

The fighting seemed to have died down a bit, so she risked a glance inside. The boys were spent, panting and covered in dust. They all had grazes of varying sizes, and Vinnie's nose had a gentle trickle of blood. Despite knowing them for a long time, she didn't think she would ever figure out why Martian Mice vented their anger by beating the living shit out of each other. Whatever happened to simply talking about things?

In any case, she took a tea towel that had somehow found its way into the living room and gently pressed it against Vinnie's bleeding snout. At first he didn't seem to notice, as if in a trance. Then his eyes flickered over once, twice, eventually making their way to her face.

"Charley-girl…" he started.

She shook her head. "You don't need to say anything."

"Wait, babe…"

"It's ok Vinnie, I understand."

"No, you don't," Vinnie said firmly. "You don't understand." Charley's eyebrow rose involuntarily, and he took a breath. "Y'see Charley-girl, it's been so long, and… Well, because it's been a long time…" He sighed. He wasn't very good at this.

Charley's expression turned wry-like, and patiently waited.

"Babe, Harley is my friend, and I-I can't give up on her. I can't leave her-Wait until I've finished," he said, Charley's face darkening. "I'm not letting her be a hostage for the rest of her life. I need… No, we need to get her back from Mace. But after that, we'll only be friends. I'm… I'm with you now, Charley-girl."

Charley's eyes boggled. "… Really?"

"Really. Biker's honour."

Whatever ill thoughts had gone through her mind in the previous ten minutes, Charley immediately took them back. The self-professed lady killer was staying with her, even when someone he once loved for so long was nearly within his reach. Guys this good really were a rare find in the world today. So rare in fact, that he wasn't even from this world, but a different one, literally.

"You really have made my night, Vinnie," she said softly.

"If Limburgers goons didn't show up, I _really_ would have made your night," Vinnie replied charmingly, his right eyebrow twitching slightly.

Charley smiled and leant forward to kiss him on the forehead, while at the same time giving him an unavoidable view of her cleavage as her breasts dangled in front of his face. "You'll get your chance soon enough," she whispered out of earshot of Modo and Throttle. She then stood up straight. "I'm going to bed – Goodnight guys," she said as she walked off to the fold-up couch.

It sounded like a good plan. Leaving the trashed furniture to be cleaned up tomorrow, Throttle and Modo retired to their rooms with Vinnie following suit a few minutes later, trying to discreetly hide the bulge in his pants.

_0_

0

_Freedom Fighters HQ, Planet Mars._

The Stalkers ship sat silently in the hangar. Commandeered from a group of bounty hunters that were languishing in a classified Martian prison, it was sleek and fast with an angry-looking furrowed cockpit and two large fins that sat at right angles to the rear fuselage. The appearance of the piece of machinery had been described as 'menacing.'

A sultry, cream-furred mouse strapped her bike down in the ships cargo hold and strutted out down the ramp like a model on a catwalk. In reality, she had more in common physically with a supermodel than a soldier.

Mad-Eye Mangle was the leader of 'The Almosts,' a four-member squad of crack troops for the Freedom Fighters, second only to the Biker Mice. Stoker himself had been the training force that was mostly behind them, and they were responsible for reclaiming more than a few cities from the Plutarkians in the recent months.

Mad-Eye herself stood at about five foot eleven with shoulder-length curly blonde hair which was kept in check with a pink headband. She had sky blue eyes, but a birth defect caused her to be blind in her left side and leaving the said eye a few shades lighter than aqua. There were occasions where it had caused people to stare or wince, so she kept a few locks of her blonde hair over the left side of her face.

The black singlet top that she wore strained slightly against her ample bosom and form-fitting grey cargo shorts that ended mid-thigh accentuated her curvy hips. Adept at martial arts and close-quarters combat, she carried two extendable batons on her belt as well as a standard issue Freedom Fighters later pistol. Many opponents had either been kicked in the crotch by a steel-capped combat boot, or had their skull cracked by a baton, or thrown against a wall because of the unassuming yet strikingly beautiful Martian.

Mad-Eye and her crew had just been given full-field clearance by Stoker, and he had promised them a few days of celebration and rest before heading out. Of course, there are casualties in war and their free time became one of them when their commander called her and said to get their gear ready because an urgent mission had come up. Briefing would be given en route.

As she stepped off the loading ramp, the second-in-command of her unit approached her, still completely out of it. "What's so important that the commander's dragged us outta bed?" he yawned.

Boomer was The Almost's demolition expert. He had dark red fur and stood six foot three. His chiseled body was covered by a black tank top, red camouflage pants and dark brown combat boots, and he carried a backpack which had 'EXPLOSIVES! DO NOT SHOOT!' stenciled on the back – contained within was a plethora of bombs for every single situation. He also used an assault rifle and standard issue army pistol.

"Not sure, he hasn't told me anything," replied Mad-Eye.

"Maybe the Plutarkians launched a sneak attack."

"Who knows?" she said. "It looks like we're the only ones rolling out." Mad-Eye stepped sideways so a couple of porters could load up the rest of The Almost's bikes. Standard issue Freedom Fighters bikes.

"When do we get our custom bikes?" said Boomer, changing the subject. "We're elite Freedom Fighters now; we should have our own rides."

Mad-Eye shrugged sarcastically. She figured they would get them soon. They had only just been given their Freedom Fighters BSU license. They would have to come soon.

The final two members of The Almosts rounded a corner and walked to the rest of their squad. One was tall and obscenely muscled, with dark gray fur and black hair braided into cornrows. A pair of aviators sunglasses covered his eyes and a large metal Freedom Fighters symbol hung from a thick chain around his neck. His weapon, a wide-barreled weapon called a pulse concussor, was held at the hip like a chainsaw. He was the token 'cool' member of the group, known as The Fridge, the heavy weapons specialist. No one except his mother seemed to know his real name.

The other, in sheer contrast, was over a foot shorter with a very slim physique. His yellow fur and light brown hair were stylishly cut and very well kept, and the perpetual smirk on his face was strikingly similar to one that men used in an underwear catalogue. Camp was The Almosts sniper, made obvious because of the long-range laser rifle slung over his shoulder.

Simply from their appearance, both of them were feeling the same way as Boomer. Fatigued. Underappreciated. Frustrated at not being able to spend their free time as they pleased. Hell, they didn't even know the reason why they were standing in the hangar in the middle of the damn night. As the group huddled together and muttered between themselves, the two final members of the team entered the hangar.

One was Stoker.

The other was the Freedom Fighter named Rimfire, who was incredibly talented in the field despite his age. He was the youngest of the group at nineteen, but with the orange stripe though his hair, mildly toned build and clean fawn fur, he looked even younger than that. It was known that he was the nephew of Modo, who was one of the original Biker Mice, a veteran of the Plutarkian war, and had the ability to beat anything into a pulp when he was angry.

Before they could even stand to attention, Stoker motioned for The Almosts to board the ship and strap in. Rimfire took his place in the pilot's seat, with Stoker acting as co-pilot. They took off and the team blasted off into the night sky.

The trip to Crateric itself would take just over eight hours. Despite the fact that the Stalkers ship was fast, its thrusters were designed to operate in space where there was no gravity. Using them while in the atmosphere of Mars would burn the fuel up too quickly, so the only option for them was to cruise.

They were nearly ten minutes into the journey when Stoker left the pilots booth and flicked a screen on the wall opposite where The Almosts sat.

"Ok children, here's the situation. We got around twenty civilians that need to be rescued – their evacuation is being organised as we speak from a township called Crateric. Small village, very out of the way. Any shelter they have wouldn't even keep the sun off Rimfire's skinny ass and no military hardware or equipment to speak of. They are completely defenceless."

"What are we rescuing them from?" The Fridge asked, his baritone voice echoing in the ship.

"Sand-Raiders. Don't know how many. But we do know they're packing some assault walkers. They also have a base of operations nearby, so we can assume they have dune buggies and goddess-knows what else."

"Er, Commander? Permission to speak?" Boomer asked. He was known to be very formal in his speech while on duty, and even more so when addressing a senior officer.

Stoker merely nodded once.

"If these citizens have no equipment, how did they get a message out to HQ?"

"You seen one of the new recruits who arrived early? Brown fur, orange eyes. Kept mostly to himself."

The Almosts murmured their acknowledgement.

"He was in Crateric on personal business when he encountered a raiding party. They were promptly disposed of." Stoker gave a humourless laugh. "The only problem is that when no illegal goods turn up, they send out a bigger force. And when they find a trashed raiding party close to a defenceless village, well...you know what happens."

The door to the cockpit opened and Rimfire joined the rest of the group. The ship was on auto-pilot.

"In any case," Stoker continued. "Our mission is to find the refugees of Crateric, and then get their asses out of there. Any opposition will be taken out with extreme prejudice."

There was silence in the ship.

"One more thing; when we get everyone on board, we're going to make a detour to Earth. Need to pick up the punks for a special mission."

The Almosts looked at each other and started chattering animatedly. They had heard stories of Earth and how different it was from their home planet. Plus they were going to rub shoulders with the first and finest of Stoker's protégées. Two rats with one stone.

"Comments? Complaints?" Stoker called, calling for attention.

It was Mad-Eye who asked the vital question. The one which had them dragged from their sleep so quickly. "What's our clock?"

Stoker paused, his bionic tail swished through the air, and he blinked once. "If we're lucky, probably a few hours past midnight."

Mad-Eye frowned slightly. "If we're lucky?"

"You know the recruit I mentioned earlier?"

The buxom blonde nodded once.

"He's gone against orders by taking on the enemy's base himself. It'll buy us some time."

"Ok, so what happens if we're unlucky?" asked The Fridge.

Stoker shrugged. "Then they'll be long dead before we get there. Anything else?"

"Are there any young men there?" Camp squeaked in a high-pitched British-like voice.

"Yes, and I'm sure they're all straight," Stoker replied.

Please review and tell me what you think. I love your reviews - I get a massive rush when my inbox says I have one unread! Have a nice day.


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